The girl’s cage was unlocked, but she did not move. One of the young priests brought a steaming bowl to Panhyssir. The high priest passed it beneath his nose for a moment, taking the merest sniff of the rising vapors, then nodded with his usual grandiosity and handed it back. The younger man carried it to the cage and held it out for the girl, then went through a little dumbshow pantomime when she would not take it, as if he could not be bothered to speak to such a creature.
Panhyssir moved over beside Vash. “As usual, we will have to threaten to kill one of the other captives if she doesn’t cooperate. She wishes to protect the children the Golden One has gathered, so she will give in after a short while. It is the same every time.” He laughed. “Ah, but no service is too aggravating when it is a service for the Great Tent himself, am I right, Minister?”
“Of course, of course,” said Vash, watching the girl. She did not look like the whole thing was merely a daily rituaclass="underline" she looked desperate and badly frightened. In truth, Vash did not like having to harm children, at least not any more than was absolutely needed for proper correction. This whole business of the Golden One’s mysterious plan was becoming more distasteful by the day.
Vash shook his head, annoyed by his own woolgathering. “The thing is, High Priest Panhyssir, I was wondering whether you had been experiencing any of the same… communication problems that I have?”
The other man looked back at him, eyes flat, expression carefully smoothed. “What exactly do you mean, Paramount Minister Vash?”
“Every day I send my letters back to the main military camp on the surface, giving orders to my subordinates, answering questions of protocol from those wishing to communicate with the Great Tent himself in some way. I am sure you do much the same.”
Panhyssir shrugged. “Most of my priests are here,” he said, sweeping his broad hand around the Sanctuary, which had been so filled with candles and ornaments and religious statuary now that it did look little different from one of the great Nushash temples back home. “There are priests of the Great God ministering to the troops of course, but they only rarely need guidance from me.”
“Perhaps it has not been as apparent to you, then, as it has to me.”
“What hasn’t been?”
“That my letters are not being answered. It’s almost two days now since I’ve had a reply from the main camp. I inquired of the courier corps and they said their men have set out for the surface the last two days but haven’t yet returned, and that no one else has come down from above, either.”
Panhyssir’s face was still carefully neutral, but Vash thought he saw a flicker of apprehension. “Ah. Still, I am sure it is nothing. A confusion of duties, perhaps, or even a mere physical impediment like a rockslide ...”
“Then why haven’t our messengers come back to say the way was blocked?”
“I couldn’t say. And it is something to be aware of, Brother Pinimmon. But not, I would say, something to fret about overmuch.”
The girl was weeping now, and Vash was distracted. The young priest was bent over her, whispering angrily. Now that his eyes were used to the light in the Sanctuary, Vash could see that not all the methods of persuasion used on her had been mere threats. She had bruises on her face and upper arms as well, and doubtless others hidden by her shapeless robes.
“I… I’m not certain I agree, High Priest Panhyssir. It could just as equally be ...” Vash was still staring at the unhappy girl. “Why does she make such a fuss?”
“What? Oh, because the Sun’s Blood potion tastes foul, I suspect. We do not have the leisure of giving it to her in smaller amounts because time is short.”
Vash shook his head. “I do not understand. Sun’s Blood… ?”
“In case she must be used in the ritual in place of the northern king. He is of the direct bloodline of the gods, only a few generations displaced.” Panhyssir nodded his head gravely. “She is of mongrel stock and the blood of Habbili in her is much thinned, so we must bring it back to a point of concentration, and quickly.” The girl groaned, a noise of true distress. Panhyssir smiled a little. “Good. She has drunk the potion. You do not want to be here when the visions take her. It can be a little upsetting for a layman. Screaming, thrashing, you can imagine.”
Vash, who had presided over dozens of tortures and executions (not particularly by choice but by the requirements of his position) raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes, it sounds dreadful. Thank you for sparing me. But I still would like to finish speaking of that other matter ...”
“Other… ? Oh, yes. And this problem with communication between the camp aboveground and our forces here worries you? Perhaps you should talk to the antipolemarch. Surely he would be aware of any difficulty.”
Vash nodded. “Yes, that is a good idea. Because I can think of more sinister reasons the messengers might not be getting through ...”
Now it was the high priest who raised an eyebrow. “Sinister? Truly? Such as what?”
“There might be hard fighting on the surface. Or a force might have come down from the castle through the Yisti city, and has now cut our supply lines.”
Panhyssir stared at him for a moment. When he laughed, it was as sudden and loud as a cannon shot, and everyone in the room except the gagging, weeping girl turned to look at him. “Cut our supply lines! What, that force of tiny soldiers? With what, toy swords and broomstick horses to ride?” He grabbed at his stomach as if it hurt. “Oh, Vash, my distinguished friend, I hope you will forgive me when I say that it is clear you have very little knowledge of war. We have crushed the resistance here so thoroughly that they will be trying to surrender to every stranger who passes for years after we are gone!”
Angry and ashamed, but as usual showing nothing, Pinimmon Vash bowed and thanked Panhyssir for sharing his wisdom. As he went out, he could still hear the girl coughing and sobbing in her cage.
Vansen scrubbed himself as well as he could with sand before he put his armor back on. It was a soldier’s habit he had learned from Donal Murroy, his old captain—take any opportunity to get clean that you can find. Most of the others hadn’t bothered, and Ferras Vansen didn’t like that. It wasn’t the smell of sweat and blood and less pleasant things that bothered him—a soldier quickly became used to the stink of many men together, especially in confined places like the Maze—but he feared that it meant his untrained Funderling soldiers, who had fought so long and so bravely against hopeless odds, had nearly given up.
Ferras Vansen didn’t blame any of them. Sledge Jasper had lost nearly half his original troop of warders, men he had trained himself. Malachite Copper’s household guard had been halved as well, and among those dead were Copper’s own brother-in-law, hacked to death on his back as he screamed for help; if Copper survived, he would still have to give his wife that dreadful news. Many of the other Funderlings were monks who had never expected to leave the temple again in their lives, let alone be forced into a war against Big Folk, and the rest were volunteers, young Funderling men who had not even joined the Stonecutter’s Guild yet.
Vansen watched a pair of monks as they carefully strapped Cinnabar to his litter under the watchful eye of the magister’s son Calomel. The past days had taught the Funderlings that retreats were often sudden, uncalculated affairs, even with Vansen’s experienced leadership, and since retreat was the only thing guaranteed in this campaign, they did their best to prepare for it ahead of time. The monk Flowstone was crouched near them, leading a few of the other Metamorphic Brothers in prayer; when he had finished, Ferras Vansen called him over.
“I am sorry if I have treated you more harshly than you deserve,” he told the young monk. “In truth, you have done well. I’m sorry you and your brothers have to go through this.”